


Green Light, Go

by kay_emm_gee



Series: third time is the charm [3]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: 90210 AU, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-02
Updated: 2015-08-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 15:26:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4484559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kay_emm_gee/pseuds/kay_emm_gee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were never friends, Clarke knows that now. Never could have been, never could be, not with the way no heart stopped when she heard that Bellamy was in the hospital.</p>
<p>So, they'll never be friends, but she's okay with that, especially because now Bellamy finally decides to do something about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Green Light, Go

He sounds like he is barely alive, his soft breaths barely audible even in the silence of her house.

Wells left a while ago to go to Maya’s party. He didn’t wanted to, not with Bellamy in such rough shape, but she practically pushed him out the door. _Go, I’ve got this_ , she said.

And so now it is just the two of them at home, him sleeping and her not sleeping, instead just listening to him breathe. Every time he takes a long pause between inhales, her heart stutters, and her eyes fly open to check that his chest still rises and falls.

And it does, even as battered and bruised as it is.

She can see the bandages sticking out from under the collar of his t-shirt, a startling white contrast against his dark skin. It is a better, more comforting combination that the red and purple that had been there earlier when his scrapes, cuts, and contusions were exposed.

The ache at seeing him like that, injured and bleeding, had set her insides on fire, burning until nothing was left except ash and hollowness, because she hadn’t been there. She hadn’t been there to try and hold him back from that fight, or, if she was being honest, to jump in beside him, slinging punches and kicks as they fought of the harassing scumbags that had first threatened that girl, and then Bellamy when he had intervened.

She should have been there, to have his back, because he has always had hers. She is here now, though, watching him sleep, watching him just breathe.

Her alarm rings softly, and she shifts forward in the chair at the side of her bed, which she insisted he use as his own for the recovery (he was living out of his car, for god’s sake, of course he was going to use her bed). He looks so peaceful that she almost doesn’t wake him, except she clearly remembers the doctor talking about head trauma and the possibility of a concussion.

Slowly, she reaches forward to grasp his hand, her fingers circling across his scabbed knuckles, the feel of them making her stomach drop. “Bellamy,” she whispers, squeezing on the last syllable. “Bellamy.”

She has to say his name a third time, soft and tender on her lips, before his eyes flutter open. When he makes a groaning protest, she smiles, wiggling his hand.

“Sorry, doc’s orders,” she says, watching him frown as he sits up against the headboard, his hair sticking up in odd places. The impulsive urge to smooth it down for him, to run her hands through the dark strands, takes her off guard. Startled, she goes to pull away, but her fingers catch on his, intertwined as they are now, keeping her in place.

“Such a rule follower. Learn to live a little, at least so I can sleep,” Bellamy mumbles out as his eyes fall shut again.

“Don’t. Wake up.”

She pokes his thigh several times for emphasis, causing him to squeeze his eyes shut even tighter. Laughing under her breath, she pokes his thigh again, then his hip, then his side—

When he lets out a pained grunt, grimacing, she jumps up in apology, hands flying to hover over his middle, not sure if touching is going to make it better or worse.

“I’m sorry! I’m so sorry, I forgot—“

“It’s alright,” he breathes, snatching her hand right out of the air. Bringing it down to the sheets, he envelops it in his large, rough one again. “I’m okay.”

Tears are in her eyes suddenly, and she sinks down onto the edge of the bed. “You idiot,” she mutters. “You never go into a fight without backup. Everybody knows that.”

“Clarke. I’m okay, and even better, so is that girl. The guy’s in jail, and I’m okay.”

“You’re  _not_  okay. You have a cracked rib, a black eye, sprained fingers—”

“Clarke.”

“You’re not okay. And if you’re not okay, I’m not okay.”

She stops, the words having tumbled out too fast for her brain to catch them. His eyes widen, but he doesn’t shift, doesn’t move, just watches her.

“When Wells called me,” she starts again slowly, gaze darting between their intertwined fingers and his assessing eyes, “saying you were in the hospital, that it was bad, I just—everything stopped. My whole world stopped. It’s never been like that for me with anybody, well, anybody who wasn’t family. Not with Finn, not with Lexa—”

“I’m sorry about her,” he says gruffly. “For how I acted. You two were good together.”

“For a little while,” Clarke corrects, smiling fondly and a little bitterly. “For a moment.”

“I’m still sorry.”

This time she waits, reading the question in his eyes, and she squeezes his hand again, telling him to go ahead, that maybe she is finally ready to hear what he has to say. He breathes deeply—and oh, how that sight makes her smile, that he can breathe like that, or just at all—and starts.

“I’ve loved you for a long time,” he says without preamble, as only he can, blunt and honest and earnest. “It hurt, seeing you with her, seeing how happy she made you.”

“For a little while,” she says in reprimand, in reminder.

He shakes his head, a bit exasperated as he shushes her teasingly. “Let me apologize will you?”

She raises her eyebrows, and he narrows his gaze, and it is so normal, so them, that she can feel her emptiness filling up again, with hope and happiness and anticipation.

“So, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t support you. It’s what friends do. What I should have done.”

“But we’re not friends, are we?”

“No,” he says slowly, cautiously. “No, we’re not friends.”

Then his fingers loosen from hers, causing her heart, her world to stop, for the second time that day, this time for entirely different, heartbreaking reason.

Then he is leaning forward, though, his hands coming up to cup her face—he is kissing her, and it is anything but slow and cautious. It is consuming, claiming, his lips moving hotly, wetly against hers. Her insides are burning again, but in a pleasant way this time, her heart a hearth, and the flame kindled inside it is one she knows she will tend for a long time.

“I love you, Clarke Griffin,” he whispers against her swollen lips when he finally pulls away. He laughs, because he can no doubt feel the way her mouth reflexively curled into a smile at hearing those words, and leans in again, stealing another heart-stopping kiss from her.

“Back at you,” she mumbles, barely getting the words out before she pursues him this time, carefully pushing him back onto the bed as she climbs over to straddle him. His arms clasp around her, just as paradoxically comforting and dangerous as ever, and she kisses him, kisses him, kisses him, listening to the thump of his heart and the rasp of his breathing. 

She revels in the simple but precious sounds, because she loves him, and probably has for a long time. 

They were never friends, after all.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on tumblr (kay-emm-gee)!


End file.
